The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 1 Read online

  “You have won a great victory, my brother.”

  Worf? Go away and let me sleep or I will cut out your tongue and feed it to you.

  “This battle is won, General. Gowron is no more than the dust you sleep in. We have been victorious thus far, but the war is not yet over.”

  Martok’s eye fluttered open. He gazed up into the black velvet night of Qo’noS. He mapped the points of starlight and recognized them as the seasonal constellations over his homeland, Ketha. Each star pattern and the picture it formed had been etched into his brain alongside every other childhood memory. Breathing deeply, he filled his senses with the stench of refuse rotting and warq roasting on spits over open fire pits. Truly, he was home.

  “You must not wallow in sentimentality, brother. The time to fight is now,” Worf barked.

  Turning away from the night canopy, Martok saw Worf trudging toward him, arms outstretched. He carried something in his arms. A bat’leth? No, that wasn’t it. When he reached Martok’s side, he dropped to oneknee, bowing his head and holding out his arms for Martok to take his offering.

  Martok rolled onto his side and considered the gift.

  The chancellor’s cloak. The heavy black cloak that bore the marks of many houses and many battles. Martok shrank away, throwing his hands behind his neck and returning his gaze to the sky. “You are mistaken, my brother. This is yours.”

  Snarling, Worf’s eyes widened. “If you will not take it willingly, it will be thrust upon you! It is not for you to refuse!” And he threw the cloak over Martok like a shroud.

  Martok struggled to free himself from the burial cloth. I will not claim this victory for my own! But the suffocating weight pressed down, smothering him. He gasped for breath, coughing, choking. He felt his way past the post, along the ground, reached beyond the span of the cloak and discovered the chains sewn into the hem. He threaded his fingers through each blade-sharp link; the metal sliced through his palms, but he succeeded in pushing the cloak away from his face, casting it off his body, ridding himself of the unbearable weight.

  Stripped of the cloak, beaten and bleeding, he lay on his back, breathing heavily, staring up at the night sky.

  The post blinked incessantly, mocking him.

  Martok closed his eye. No. I. Will. Not.

  “Son.” The voice was pitched low, but it cut through the ache of Martok’s lamentations. He knew the voice, but Martok refused to look up. He rolled onto his stomach, gripped the earth, and clenched his eye tightly shut. No! he thought. I will not look up. He cannot be here. Even if this is a dream (for Martok had suddenly remembered that he might be dreaming), he cannot be here. I never dream of him. This was, of course, a lie, one of the few that the general had ever told himself and believed.

  Temptation proved irresistible.

  Martok pushed away from the welcoming earth and looked up. Urthog, his father, stood waiting, his hand extended, proffering help, perhaps even comfort.

  His father looked as he had when Martok had last seen him, before he had journeyed to Sto-Vo-Kor. At that time, so long ago now, Martok hadn’t yet won honor on General Shivang’s flagship, thus escaping the drudgery of the lower decks that Kor’s judgment had consigned him to. His father had missed the chance to rejoice in his son’s climb through the ranks to become the general … no, the chancellor. He was the chancellor. … And then a thought stabbed at him. What would his father think of his becoming chancellor? Would he be proud? Or would Urthog rather have had his son remain a general, or even a common soldier of the empire?

  Urthog spoke again: “Arise, my son.” He wore warrior’s clothes, which was peculiar because on his infrequent visits to their home, the first thing his father did after greeting Martok’s mother was don simple, gray robes. That was the way Martok remembered him: a quiet, reserved man, who spoke so softly that his son had always felt the need to lean in close and hold his own breath to hear him. Urthog’s wife had adored him and mourned his passing for the rest of her life, which had always colored Martok’s memory of the man. Urthog might have been a good husband and a great warrior, but he had also made Martok’s mother suffer a depth of sadness that their son could never comprehend.

  “Father,” he said, “I have won great honor for ourfamily,” but as soon as the words left his mouth, he cringed to hear the desperation in them.

  “You have lost your way,” Urthog said, ignoring his son’s words.

  Martok shook his head. “Because I became chancellor? That was not my choice, Father. Worf … he thrust it upon me. Let someone else …” And, again, Martok was saddened to hear how pitifully sad these words sounded.

  Waving his hand dismissively, Urthog said again, his voice sharp with impatience, “You have lost your way.” He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “You fight without ceasing, but this is not what I taught you. Do not waste your time, or mine, with these endless battles. You are a Klingon warrior.”

  Were these riddles? Martok’s mind reeled. “Father,” he stammered. “I don’t understand. Help me to understand! If I am to be a warrior, then mustn’t I fight? Isn’t that what a warrior is? One who fights the wars?”

  Urthog sighed heavily and shook his head. “If that is what you believe, I have failed.”

  “No!” Martok shouted. “You did not! Father, tell me what I should know. I need to know so that I can rule wisely.” The general’s shoulders drooped and his head sagged forward. “If only …”

  Urthog leaned over and set his hand on his son’s shoulder. “‘If only’?” he asked, his touch firm, but gentle. Martok felt himself being lifted up and set on his feet, as if he weighed no more than a small boy. “‘If only’ what, my son?”

  Tilting his head back, Martok gazed up into his father’s eyes. “If only,” he said, “I was not so weary. I have been fighting for so long, Father. So long … I am wounded and I fear I may never heal.”

  Urthog laid his hand on Martok’s forehead and said, “You are whole again, my son. You have vision, you have a voice, you have a family. You have wisdom. You have everything you need.”

  Looking down, Martok saw that it was true. He was himself again, healed and whole. One-eyed, yes, but he had grown accustomed to that. He had everything he had brought to the arena, everything he needed, except for his d’k tahg. Without thinking why, Martok looked up at his father and said, “But I have no weapon.”

  His father nodded and, without another word, thrust his hand at Martok’s chest. The armor dissolved at his father’s touch. Flesh and sinew and bone parted until Urthog cupped Martok’s heart and drew it forth, still beating, to present before his disbelieving son’s gaze. Smiling grimly, Urthog said, “Then you had better use this.”

  2

  THE GENERAL WOKE.

  He shook his head, rubbed his eye, and tried to tear himself loose from the veil of dreams. Like most veteran campaigners, Martok had long ago mastered the ability to fall asleep within seconds and awaken clear-headed no matter how little he had rested, so to still feel the fog of his slumber was distressing. Too many soft bunks, he thought. Too much good food and rich wine. Too much song. “Too much victory,” he muttered aloud as he forced himself to sit up.

  Rubbing his face roughly, Martok tried to remember where he was and when he had fallen asleep. He wasn’t wearing armor, which was a good thing because nothing played hell with his back like sleeping in armor. He was still wearing his clothes—not all that unusual a situation, really—but that led him to perform the hangover inventory. Headache? Yes, but only a mild one. Sour stomach: no. Blurred vision: not notably. Dry mouth: yes, but he always woke with a dry mouth aboard a ship. There was something about the air recyclers.

  A ship. Yes, he was aboard a ship, his ship. He glanced up and there it was: the status display over his bunk. The Imperial flagship Negh’Var was cruising under cloak at warp five, all systems nominal. Long-range sensors indicated safe passage between here and Qo’noS, and why should they expect anything different? The mighty Klingon-Fed
eration-Romulan alliance had scoured the Dominion from the Alpha Quadrant. He, Martok, had been one of the leaders at the glorious final assault on Cardassia. And now he was returning to the homeworld to take his rightful place as the leader of the Klingon High Council.

  So, why were they running under cloak?

  Because old habits die hard.

  And why did he feel so miserable?

  Same answer.

  General Martok, Chancellor of the Klingon Empire, was the sort of warrior made nervous by unbroken streaks of good fortune. When circumstance conspired against them, when hostile hordes were about to swarm over the walls, when the last disruptor battery had been spent and the last bat’leth had lost its edge, on those days Martok could be depended on to say an encouraging word to every man, could be found at every station offering advice, remembered the words to every verse of every invigorating battle hymn. … But on the good days, when the wine flowed and the Imperial Trefoil cracked in the wind overhead? On those days, every soldier in his command knew to stay out of the general’s way.

  Old habits die hard: Martok did not trust good days because, sooner or later, things would get worse.

  He could see it all in his mind’s eye so clearly. They would enter orbit over Qo’noS and, as was the tradition, the entire council would be lined up outside the Great Hall, each member dressed in his finest armor, decorations from hundreds, nay, thousands of battles glittering on their councillors’ cassocks. The Negh’Var would drop its cloak and Martok would send the ritual greeting reporting victory in battle. The pro tem leader of the council—Martok couldn’t remember his name—would invite the general to take his rightful place as chancellor and, as was the tradition, Martok would decline. Then someone else, the next most senior member, would step forward and begin to recite the general’s victories, finishing with a plea that he assume the leadership of the empire. Again, Martok would refuse, so the next most senior member would step forward and recite the glorious history of his House and ask if he would be their leader, and on and on and on. …

  The formalities were ridiculous. Martok was the chancellor, had been for months. He had done everything a chancellor was expected to do, been everything a chancellor was expected to be. Everything except, of course, go through this time-wasting exercise in pomp and fatuous behavior. If the ceremony belonged to any other species in the quadrant, the Klingons, as a people, would mercilessly mock it, but, Martok recognized, as little patience as his people had for other cultures’ ceremonies, they could never see the absurdities of their own.

  And then, finally, finally, Martok would draw his d’k tahg, slice open his palm, swear fealty to the empire, and deign to be beamed down to the Great Hall where he would present the council with the bloodstained dagger as a symbol of his leadership. Then there would be receptions, revelries, and victorious processions, with the accolades of citizens and civil leaders alike. The celebration would last for days. Martok snorted derisively, hoping that luck would bring a stray platoon of Jem’Hadar soldiers herding a pack of rabid targs into the midst of the festivities, thereby giving him something useful to do. He sighed resignedly. Not likely, he thought. And, besides, Worf wouldn’t let us get sidetracked.

  And then there was the problem of Worf, whom he had taken into his House, the one responsible for Martok’s becoming chancellor in the first place. The council’s protocol representative who had contacted him the day before had attempted tactfully—as tactfully as a Klingon can, anyway—to suggest that Worf not accompany the new chancellor when he beamed down to the First City. Though officially Worf was a war hero and now the Federation’s ambassador to Qo’noS, there were still many in the empire, both of high and low birth, who did not like the idea of the chancellor sharing the limelight with a warrior they considered a traitor. Martok’s predecessor, Gowron, had planted his poison about Worf widely and well.

  But Martok had unequivocally explained in very small words and very short phrases exactly how unlikely it would be that Worf would stay behind. Partly, this was because Martok knew that this was only the latest volley in what was already a very long battle over his blood brother’s standing within the empire. Second, one of the few bits of satisfaction the general took from the thought of the coming celebratory ordeal was the knowledge that no matter how uncomfortable he would be, Worf would suffer more. No one hated a party the way Worf hated a party.

  Martok sighed again and looked around the stateroom. He felt the need for a cup of raktajino, which was a bad sign. Old Darok, his aide-de-camp, had once told him, “When you start feeling like you need something to clear your head in the morning, you’re not getting enough sleep. Or too much.” Martok hauled himself up onto his feet, felt aches and heard joints crack where he hadn’t felt or heard anything the day before. Victory is weakening me. He paused. Or perhaps I’m just getting old.

  The stateroom’s computer signaled that there was someone at the door. Martok checked the security scanner: it was Worf. “Wonderful,” Martok grunted. “The perfect beginning to a perfect day.” It was too many steps to the damned replicator. He had to remind himself that he was not in the captain’s quarters but rather the chancellor’s cavernous stateroom. He would have preferred something less pretentious, but at least he had convinced them that he didn’t require an honor guard to watch him while he slept. How much safer, he had asked, could he be than on a cloaked ship manned by the finest warriors in the empire? That had satisfied everyone’s sense of honor. What sorts of dreams would Martok have had if he had felt all those eyes staring down at him all night?

  He stopped before the replicator and rested one hand against the bulkhead. Dreams? Dreams of someone staring down at him? What … ?

  The computer signaled again.

  “Yes,” Martok growled. “Yes, I know.” He spoke to the replicator, “Raktajino. Hot. Two kava.” Kira had hooked him on the stuff. He suddenly realized how much he missed the major. … No, wait. Colonel. She had been promoted nearly a year ago. She had been a no-nonsense commander, more concerned about the condition of the people under her than the number of honorifics associated with her name. A strong, proud woman, much like his own Sirella. Sirella. Now, there was a reason to want to come home. Somewhere at the end of this long day there would be his home and his bed and Sirella. … Well, if she permitted it … and wanted him. … Martok frowned and took the cup from the replicator. Dammit, he thought. Here I am, the chancellor, the General Victorious, the leader of the empire, and I’m still worried that my wife might not want to sleep with me tonight. He snarled, but at the thought of Sirella, the snarl turned into a wolfish grin, so he lifted his cup and toasted her.

  Martok turned toward the door and wondered if Worf had gone away. But, no. This was Worf—of course he hadn’t gone away. Martok spoke a code word that deactivated the security protocols, then told the door to open. Before Worf could enter, Martok staggered into the washroom and doused his face. Without the bracing challenge of battle to invigorate him, cold water would have to suffice. Had it been only four days since he’d come aboard the Negh’Var? Bah. Four days too long.

  When Martok exited the washroom, his beard and much of his hair still dripping, he found Worf standing respectfully by the door, hands behind his back, obviously pondering his responsibilities, probably planning ahead for everything he had to do over the next, oh, twenty or thirty years. As much as Martok liked his adopted brother and admired his skills as a warrior, he considered Worf to be, without question, the stuffiest individual he had ever met. “What is it, Worf?” the general said. “Oh, wait. Forgive me: Ambassador.”

  Martok had been teasing Worf about the title and his new responsibilities since they had left Bajoran space. Martok took deep delight at the thought of Worf living at the Federation embassy among, alas for him, scores of Terrans, Vulcans, Andorians, and all the other polite species. Then there was the thought of the social functions and the ridiculous costumes the ambassador was occasionally required to wear. Someday, he knew, Worf mi
ght even have to sit across the table from a Dominion Vorta and somehow overcome the temptation to reach out and twist the smiling fool’s head off his shoulders.

  “Good morning, Chancellor,” Worf said levelly. “We have a full agenda today. I thought it would be more efficient if we met early in the day and coordinated our schedules.”

  Martok grumbled unintelligibly under his breath, “Damnable bureaucracy!” And Worf’s, as opposed to Darok’s, being the bearer of such annoyances hardly improved matters. At least Darok could be depended on for some mildly amusing sarcasm. Worf? Allowing his brother to assume Darok’s day-to-day tasks while the elder Klingon went ahead to prepare for his arrival at home might have been a bad idea. Worf had been so persistent—solicitous, even—in requesting the responsibility that Martok felt unable to refuse. “I have an obligation as your brother, and as the one who challenged Gowron, to place myself at your disposal. I am yours to command,” he had said. Repeatedly.

  On the positive side, having Worf do Darok’s job meant that Martok maintained some semblance of control over Worf’s agenda, shuttling whatever bothersome nonsense their Federation allies wanted dealt with until later; letting Worf “help” had its benefits. Martok might have to crack a few padds against the bulkhead plating before they reached Qo’noS, but that was of minuscule consequence in the greater design.

  Dropping heavily into a low chair, Martok set his cup on the arm. The drink was beginning to revive him. “I thought,” he said, “that all we had to do today was be showered with the fruits of glorious victory and allow the masses to pay homage.”